Potter's Field
by Calliopeia17
Summary: Peter Pettigrew’s life, as told through three significant days. On Beltane-Eve, the veils between the worlds are thin. Dark is almost light, lies are almost truth, and good is almost evil. Inspired by Biblical and Celtic mythology.
1. April 30, 1967

Title: Potter's Field (Part 1 of 3)

Author: Calliopeia17

Summary: Peter Pettigrew's life, as told through three significant days. On Beltane-Eve, the veils between the worlds are thin. Dark is almost light, lies are almost truth, and good is almost evil. Inspired by Biblical and Celtic mythology.

Rating: PG-13 for dark thematic elements and mild cursing

Pairing: Gen

Warnings: None, really.

Reviews: Please! Feedback is good!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. That honor belongs to JKR and Warner Bros.

A/N: This all started when I was watching the old movie version of _Jesus Christ Superstar_. I thought that Judas was a much more sympathetic character than Jesus, and it possessed me to do something I never would have otherwise, and write a Peter-centric fic. The entire story expanded from a very brief one-shot plot bunny into the three chapters it has now by me re-reading old JKR interviews and remembering that the DEs used to be called the Knights of Walpurgis. That knowledge, and my resulting research, brought this fic into being.

* * *

April 30, 1967

"On Beltane-Eve, the veils of all the worlds are thin. Dark is almost light on Beltane-Eve, as the great fires send their glow into the sky like a second sun. Muggle is almost magic, for when the faeries walk, even the Muggles can feel their grace in the air. Winter is almost summer; it is the time of the turning of the seasons. Good is almost evil. Who knows what is real, on Beltane-Eve?" Sidhe Pettigrew's voice lilted in a graceful cadence that reminded the pudgy blonde boy curled up in her arms, his head resting on her shoulder, of magic itself.

He shifted for a moment, turning his head so as best to see her face. Peter's mother was the most beautiful woman in the entire world, and she told the greatest stories, too. Whenever he told her that, though, she would just smile and shake her head and say "Not stories, Peter. Just what is true, just what is real," in that voice that sounded, whenever she talked, like she were casting a spell. Every word she spoke had the same weight and power as hearing Father say those words that Peter wasn't supposed to say, no matter what, not ever, that sounded like "Abracadabra" in those stupid "Martin Miggs, Mad Muggle" comics only with a heavy depth to them like the lowest notes of the organ in the church that vibrated his very bones. Mummy's voice wasn't like the organ, exactly; more like the choir, slow and sweet and solemn. But Mummy didn't go to the church, even though Father would shout sometimes and say more bad words that Peter wasn't supposed to say, only not as bad as the rumbling organ ones that had made that man fall over with lots of green light. Only Peter wasn't supposed to have seen that.

But Mummy didn't ever go to church, no matter how much Father shouted, and she told Peter stories, stories that couldn't be real because at church they said that there was only one god, and you had to spell his name like God, with a capital G, because he was the only one, but in Mummy's stories there were lots of gods, with names like Llew Llaw Gyffes and Mabon and Ceridwen, and Mummy said they were real, too. She said it every time Peter asked for a new story: "Just what is real, just what is true." And Mummy's name was Sidhe, like one of the gods, and Peter thought that maybe she secretly actually was a Sidhe, only she never did any magic like that, only normal magic like everyone else's mummies did, to cook and clean up the house and take all the wrinkles out of Peter's clothing when he tripped and fell down and mussed them. Peter did that a lot.

"On Beltane-Eve," Sidhe whispered suddenly in Peter's ear, ruffling his hair and giving him goosebumps, "lies are almost the truth." Peter shivered.

Mummy stiffened at that, and picked Peter up off her lap to turn him around. She looked into his eyes, and asked "What's wrong, my love?" Her voice and her eyes were so serious and grave that they almost made Peter shiver again, but instead he frowned and tried to answer her question, only it came out like another question.

"If lies are almost the truth, then how do I ever know what is real?" Peter scrunched up his forehead.

"You can't on Beltane-Eve, my love," Sidhe replied, "but the rest of the time, you follow a star."

"A star?" Peter asked.

Sidhe brushed a wisp of Peter's fine hair off of his forehead. "You find a star—someone you love and trust and who loves and trusts you back—and you follow it. And you'll know the difference between truth and lies. But you be careful, because on Beltane-Eve, truth is veiled no matter what and good and evil are almost the same things. And every Beltane-Eve, you must put a twig of whitethorn across your door, or under your pillow, to keep evil far away."

"Mummy," Peter couldn't help but ask, "who is your star?"

Sidhe sighed. "My star is my own mummy, my love, who taught me everything I mean to teach you."

"But Mummy," Peter asked hesitantly, "isn't your mummy—gone?" Peter knew that Grandmum was dead, but he didn't really know what "dead" meant except that it was something that made grownups very upset and maybe had something to do with Father's green-light spell, only he didn't think that being dead meant that Grandmum had fallen down on the floor.

Mummy looked very serious again. "Yes, darling, but my memory of her is my star."

"You're my star, Mummy," Peter declared, and Mummy smiled, but shook her head.

"I may be your star now, but someday you'll be grown, and you'll have another star—a real one, who'll be your best friend. And you can put your whitethorn out together."

"Maybe," said Peter, unconvinced, and Sidhe picked him up again and turned him around once more, so that his back rested against her soft chest. He put his head on her shoulder.

"Let me tell you more about Beltane, darling, for there is a tale in it, as there is in everything. On Beltane-Eve, the Wild Huntsman, the servant of the Annwn, of death and winter, does battle with Gwythur ap Greidawl, who fights in the name of summer and fire and light, for the hand of the maiden Creudylad, the daughter of the earth. You see, my love—"

A door slammed from below the bedroom where Peter and Sidhe sat, and Peter jumped. Sidhe's lips tightened as angry footsteps made their way up the staircase, making muffled booms on the hollow wood. The door pushed open with a creak, and Father stepped inside the room.

Pontius Pettigrew was a large man and a dark one, his hair coal-black and his face perpetually ruddy-toned. He talked in a loud voice that often made Peter's head spin, about lots of things Peter didn't understand at all—people called Mudbloods, but Peter didn't understand how people could get mud inside their blood. He got mud on his clothes sometimes, but never inside his skin. Pontius also talked about God a lot. Father was the one who made Peter go to church every Sunday, and pray for the future of the Wizarding World. Peter didn't really know what that meant, but he went anyway, because Father would shout if he didn't, and besides, the music in the church was pretty and it smelled sort of smoky-sweet inside and there were magic lamps that floated along the ceiling and shone beams of light in pretty colors down on the pews where everybody sat. Only the stories didn't match up with Mummy's.

Father looked angry tonight, but then, Father always looked angry, even sometimes when he wasn't. His face was always stern, and Peter imagined that was how God would look when he cast sinners into Hell.

"What nonsense are you polluting my son's soul with tonight, Sidhe?" Father asked. No, he was definitely angry. Peter shivered again and pulled closer to Mummy.

Mummy's voice was icy cold. "I'm teaching my son the legends of Beltane," she replied evenly.

"Beltane?" Father spat. "Filling his head with pagan rubbish—"

"The history of his people!" Mummy retorted.

"History is the story of God, and the story of Wizardkind," Father snapped, "not your ridiculous mythology. I won't have you muddying his mind with it." He grabbed Peter's arm and yanked, jerking Peter's round form away from his mother with a sharp twist that made Peter's shoulder suddenly start to throb. His lip quivered, but Father hadn't meant to hurt him, and he'd only be mad if Peter started crying.

"Pontius," said Mummy, her voice dangerous, "you're going to hurt the child."

Father cut her off with a sharp movement of his arm. "Enough. My son is coming with me tonight." And he picked up Peter around his waist, so that it hurt his stomach, and carried him off to the dark study, which always smelled of cigar smoke. Father sat Peter down in the big leather chair at his desk and whispered a "_Lumos_" so that the small lamps in the corners of the room began to glow.

"Peter, your mother told you that tonight was Beltane, I suppose?"

"Beltane-Eve," Peter agreed tremulously.

Father sighed. "It isn't, really. The name that the people of God have for tonight is the feast of Saint Walpurga. Beltane is a pagan name, the name the devil calls it because he can't speak the name of a Saint. You may call tonight the feast of St. Walpurga, or Walpurgis Night if you will, but not Beltane."

Peter nodded quickly.

"Peter, I have a gift for you, to celebrate Walpurgis Night." He pulled from an inside pocket of his vast greatcoat a small book with golden-edged pages. Peter took it in one pudgy hand.

"A Bible?" Peter asked, and Father nodded.

"The stories in here, I believe you'll find, are even prettier than the one your mother tells you. Some of them may be hard for you to read yet, but I'll tell you which ones are simple, and you can grow into the rest. And don't forget, my son, that God would be proud of you if you tested your limits."

Peter nodded again, even quicker than before. He hurriedly opened the book to a random page and read a line aloud. "_And it came to pass at midnight that the—the Lord struck all the first—firstborn in the land of Egypt, from the firstborn of Phar—Phar—Phar-ra-oh who sat on his throne to the firstborn of the captive who was in the dungeon, and all the firstborn of live—livestock. So Phar-ra-oh rose in the night, he, all his servants, and all the Egyptians; and there was a great cry in Egypt, for there was—was not a house where there was not one dead."_

"That's excellent, my son. I'm proud of you," said Pontius approvingly, and Peter smiled hesitatingly at him.

"What does it mean, though, Father?" Peter asked, not really certain if he should ask or not.

But Father didn't seem to mind. "It is a story of God striking down the sinners, those who are not worthy to be in His sight," he replied, which didn't explain anything to Peter, but he stayed silent.

"Here's another bit I think you'll like," Father said, taking the book from Peter and flipping to a page a bit further ahead. "_And I say also unto thee, that thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build My church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it._ That's where your name came from, Peter. From the Bible, and it means 'rock.' You'll have to be strong and live up to it now."

Peter just nodded again.

"Now, off to bed, son. Happy Walpurgis Night."

"Happy Walpurgis Night," Peter echoed, and then scurried off to his cozy bedroom. He was pulling the covers over himself when he noticed something sharp under his pillow. He lifted his head and pulled it loose. It was a twig of whitethorn. Father would want him to throw it away—

But no. Peter tucked it back under his pillow and thought of his mother and her church-choir voice as he fell asleep. He dreamed that night that God had come to strike him down, with all the other firstborn sons, but that he turned to rock like his name, and God couldn't touch him.

When Peter awoke the next morning, he slipped the whitethorn twig into the secret drawer under his bed, and hesitating a moment, put the Bible in beside it. For the next four years, until he left for Hogwarts like Mummy and Father told him all Wizard boys would, he brushed the whitethorn every time he took out the Bible.

When the Hogwarts Express pulled away, though, they both stayed there.

* * *

It was on the Hogwarts Express that Peter met his star. Three of them, really. James Potter first, of course; always first in all of their hearts. But Sirius Black and Remus Lupin too, and it was with all three of them that on the next Beltane-Eve Peter snuck towards the Forbidden Forest and cut four twigs of whitethorn to lay in the doorway of the Gryffindor boys' dorm. And for that year, at least, they were protected from evil.

* * *

A/N: Enjoyed? Please review! 


	2. April 30, 1980

Title: Potter's Field (Part 2 of 3)

Author: Calliopeia17

Summary: Peter Pettigrew's life, as told through three significant days. On Beltane-Eve, the veils between the worlds are thin. Dark is almost light, lies are almost truth, and good is almost evil. Inspired by Biblical and Celtic mythology.

Rating: PG-13 for dark thematic elements and mild cursing

Pairing: Gen

Warnings: None, really.

Reviews: Please! Feedback is good!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. That honor belongs to JKR and Warner Bros.

A/N: This all started when I was watching the old movie version of _Jesus Christ Superstar_. I thought that Judas was a much more sympathetic character than Jesus, and it possessed me to do something I never would have otherwise, and write a Peter-centric fic. The entire story expanded from a very brief one-shot plot bunny into the three chapters it has now by me re-reading old JKR interviews and remembering that the DEs used to be called the Knights of Walpurgis. That knowledge, and my resulting research, brought this fic into being.

* * *

April 30, 1980

The last time Peter could remember seeing James so angry had been the night before he'd married Lily. They'd all been a bit tipsy—well, James and Sirius had been staggering drunk, and Peter and Remus had been a bit tipsy—and Sirius had said that James was going to abandon his best friends the next day for some red-haired bird. James was outraged. "How dare you, Pads," he had roared. "You know damn well I'd never abandon any of you, never betray you, never leave you without help. Not even for Lily, and you know damn well I'd do anything for her. I'd just do anything for you three, as well." James's face was crimson, and his eyes were flashing, and Peter had never seen him look so angry before. Remus had put a hand on James's shoulder then, and Peter had come up with a joke to lighten the moment, and Sirius muttered a "Sorry, mate," but Peter had never forgotten the look of James's rage.

And now he was seeing it again, only this time it was cold. James was sober this time—he'd hardly be at an Order meeting drunk—but just as angry as he'd been half a year ago. It was, Peter reflected, rather like watching a star about to explode.

"Mr. Potter, someone has to go," Minerva McGonagall was saying, "and you know the area the best of any of us."

James wasn't even looking at her. He only had eyes for Lily, Lily with her swelling belly and body turned all to curves with the baby inside her and shiny, fiery hair. He shook his head.

"Minerva, Albus, I can't go. It'd put Lily and the baby at risk, you know that, and I won't do that. I can't."

This time, it was Professor Dumbledore who looked over his half-moon spectacles at James. "Mr. Potter—"

"No!" James interrupted. "If I go I'll have to take the wards down, and you know the Death Eaters are going after Muggleborns and I won't risk it, Albus, I won't. My family comes first."

"Comes before the fate of the world, James?" Dumbledore asked, and his voice was cheerful and twinkling, like it always was, only there was steel behind it.

"It's not the fate of the world that's at stake tonight, Albus," James said. "One of the boys can go instead; they won't mind—"

"I know the area too, Albus," said Remus softly. "I can go." Peter felt an odd feeling in his stomach at that, at the image of quiet, gentle Remus putting himself in danger in James's place, even though Peter knew that James always said it was something that any one of them would do for any other. The feeling subsided a bit when Professor Dumbledore nodded, apparently satisfied.

The four Marauders and Lily left the Order meeting after that, and James put a hand on Remus's shoulder. "Thanks, Moony," he said briefly. And he and Lily went home, to their safe little cottage in Godric's Hollow, warded and secure, and Sirius left for his flat, and Remus went off on whatever mission Dumbledore had meant for James, and Peter was left alone to wander back to his own little room in the Hogsmeade boardinghouse, to watch the Beltane fires from his window and think back to his father's tales of Walpurgis Night, when Satan came to steal the souls of good Christians. That wasn't what his thoughts lingered on, though; rather, he couldn't shake the image of a scared-looking Remus, trapped, in pain, the way he used to look after the worst full moons when the scars were still livid on his face.

It was the first Beltane in seven years that Peter hadn't cut whitethorn with the Marauders, and this year, he didn't even think to lay a bough across his door before he collapsed into bed and fell asleep.

Peter awoke to the sound of his front door creaking open. That was odd; he couldhave sworn he'd locked the door. It was hardly going to blow open, even in the April wind. He sat up in bed, tossing off the covers, and reached slowly for his wand.

"_Expelliarmus_."

The voice came out of nowhere, and Peter's wand flew from his hand. He spun, trying to see around him, but the dim glow of the Beltane fires through the heavy curtain barely provided enough light for him to see the silhouettes of his own hands.

"Who—" he began, and was proud that his voice barely even quavered.

"_Lumos."_ came the voice again, and then Peter could see who was speaking but wasn't entirely sure he had wanted to find out. He gaped at the robed figure, cloaked and hooded in black, and he knew who it was.

The name the man gave was not what Peter had been expecting, but it meant the same thing, really. "Who am I, Peter Pettigrew?" a silken voice asked. "I am a Knight of Walpurgis."

"You're a Death Eater," Peter said simply.

"I am," the silken voice agreed, "and I have come to ask a favor of you."

"What!" Peter exclaimed. "A favor? What could I possibly do for you? Not that I would anyway—I mean—you're supposed to be evil…"

_On Beltane-Eve, good is almost evil._

"You may find, Mr. Pettigrew, that the Dark Lord has more to offer you than you might think. And more reasons for you to grant your loyalty to us than anything James Potter could offer."

"James Potter? It's hardly James Potter who runs the resistance—"

The hooded figure cut him off. "It would be foolish of the Dark Lord to believe you served Dumbledore out of any loyalty to that old fool. You serve him for your friends. And your friends are not worth your faith. Already they have begun to betray you, betray the ideals they once stood for."

"You lie," Peter snapped petulantly. "James would never betray me."

"Would he not?" the Death Eater replied. "He has already abandoned your little clique in favor of his new Mudblood wife, has he not? He sent Remus Lupin into danger in his place. What makes you think he will not do the same to you?"

"I—" Peter stopped. There didn't seem to be an easy retort to that.

_On Beltane-Eve, lies are almost the truth._

"James Potter puts his family before his friends, as he promised never to do. He has betrayed you, betrayed you all."

"It was just once," Peter argued weakly, "he won't—he wouldn't—"

"He would. And he will, Peter Pettigrew. He has given up on the bonds of your friendship. Why should you not do the same? You'd be doing nothing less than he did. Just following the light of his star."

"I—I can't. I can't. This isn't right; it can't be—"

"You'd be doing nothing less than James Potter did," the Death Eater said, and his voice was honey laced with cyanide.

"What—I'm really not sure—what do you want of me?"

Suddenly it occurred to Peter that the Death Eaters might kill him. It was like an epiphany, like a candle coming alight in his head.

"What do you want of me?" he repeated again, softer, and this time his voice did quaver slightly.

"Just information. The Dark Lord asks nothing else of you. Just information. And in return, he will grant you the protection that James Potter will not."

"What—what information?" Peter asked. Something in his head was screaming _this is wrong_, but really, it made sense. It did make sense. James had broken his promises. He wasn't going to protect Peter, just as he hadn't protected Remus. All those promises, "_I will die for you, battle for you, suffer for you_,"were nothing more than lies, really. Just lies and betrayal. It made sense.

"It is just one tiny piece of knowledge the Dark Lord desires, and he does not yet need it. It is information that will be of interest to him in the future. He will ask you for the location of James and Lily Potter."

"That's—that's all?" Peter asked.

"As simple as that," the Death Eater replied.

_On Beltane-Eve, dark is almost light._

"Protect yourself, Peter Pettigrew" the Death Eater urged. "James Potter will not do it for you."

Peter nodded. "Very well." And this time, his voice was clear.

The Death Eater pulled out something that glinted silver in the eerie wandlight from his voluminous robes. "As a token of our arrangement," he said, and held it out to Peter.

He took it, held it up to the light. An armband; thirty interlocked silver discs. Peter's brow furrowed.

"Protect yourself," the Death Eater said softly, and Peter nodded, and, steeling his courage—he was a Gryffindor, after all, no matter what Snivellus and the others had said—he slid it onto his left arm. It glowed suddenly, red hot, and burnt into his forearm, and Peter screamed, and screamed, and then it was over, and the armband was gone, and in its place on his arm was the faint outline of a tattoo, a skull with a snake in its mouth, and, in a circle around it, thirty silver discs like tiny moons. A moment later, the tattoo faded as well.

_On Beltane-Eve, good is almost evil._

With a pop, the Death Eater disapparated, and the room was left in darkness.


	3. October 25, 1981

Title: Potter's Field (Part 3 of 3)

Author: Calliopeia17

Summary: Peter Pettigrew's life, as told through three significant days. On Beltane-Eve, the veils between the worlds are thin. Dark is almost light, lies are almost truth, and good is almost evil. Inspired by Biblical and Celtic mythology.

Rating: PG-13 for dark thematic elements and mild cursing

Pairing: Gen

Warnings: None, really.

Reviews: Please! Feedback is good!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. That honor belongs to JKR and Warner Bros.

A/N: And, well, this chapter also inspired by Shakespeare's Henry V, which completely happened by accident. I was just searching through the timeline on the HP Lexicon when I realized that the Fidelius Charm was probably performed on or around St. Crispan's day. I couldn't help but put it in!

* * *

Oct. 25, 1981

Pontius Pettigrew had always praised Peter when he knew what Saint's day it was. It had hardly been a common occurrence; Peter had never been good at remembering dates, to Professor Binns's constant chagrin, but today was one of the few he would never forget—the feast of St. Crispan. Reading Shakespeare was almost as good as listening to Sidhe's mythology, and it was the closest Peter had managed to get since Pontius had died a year before, and Peter had stopped going home.

Oh, but though tonight might have been St. Crispan's, tonight whenever he thought the words "_Harry the King_" he thought not of Henry V and Agincourt, but of baby Harry, Harry who smiled at him and clutched at his fingers. Harry, for whom James had betrayed the Marauders.

The scar on Peter's forearm burned faintly.

The Dark Lord was calling in his debts, Peter knew. He wanted James Potter, but Peter despaired of ever finding a way to deliver the information. He had heard them planning, knew that Dumbledore intended to cast a Fidelius charm and make Sirius the secret-keeper. Peter buried his doughy face in his hands. How could he ever explain that to the Dark Lord?

All it took, though, in the end, were two sharp pops to turn Peter Pettigrew's fortunes around. Two hollow sounds, making a noise like a bubble disappearing, and Padfoot and Prongs were standing in his sitting room.

"What—" Peter began, stupefied. It was hardly typical for anyone to apparate into another wizard's home. Common courtesy mandated at least appearing on the doorstep and knocking.

Prongs put a hand to his lips. "Wormtail," he said, keeping his voice just above a whisper, "we need your help."

"What—" Peter said again, but then trailed off. He didn't even know what he could possibly have asked.

"Peter, you know we're marked to die, Harry and Lily and me."

…_If we are mark'd to die, we are enow / To do our country loss…_

Sirius overran James in his haste. "Wormtail, you know we're doing the Fidelius charm. But I just realized, I'm the first person that Voldemort—" Peter flinched at the name "—would suspect. We need a decoy. Someone to take my place. And we think you're perfect."

Peter's mouth dropped open. It was odd, really; the first impression that crossed the mind of a loyal Death Eater should have been that he now had a chance to give James's location to the Dark Lord. Instead, the fleeting thought was, _Sending me into danger to protect Lily and Harry. The same betrayal the Dark Lord warned of._

"Of course I will," Peter said quickly, then flinched inwardly, terrified that he had been careless, that James and Sirius would think he was too eager.

Indeed, Sirius seemed to hesitate for moment. "Are you sure you know what you're getting into, Peter? This will put you straight in the way of Voldemort."

"I know," Peter said steadily, trying to sound as though he were afraid, which wasn't difficult, because he was afraid, though not of what Sirius and James suspected. "I want the chance to prove I'm a Gryffindor for once in my life."

"Oh, you're a true Gryffindor, mate," James said with a sweet smile that made Peter's stomach crawl with the thought that this apparent paragon was the man who would put his own life before his dearest friends'.

Or was it guilt that twisted inside him?

"You're really sure?" Sirius asked again, and Peter nodded. "Good. Then let's go." He handed Peter a scrap of parchment with apparition coordinates scrawled across it in James's messy handwriting. Peter pulled out his wand, and the three of them were suddenly in Godric's Hollow.

The yard was empty.

"Where's Dumbledore?" Peter asked, surprised.

"Not here," Sirius said bluntly. "We figured the fewer people who know about the switch, the better.

Remus might not have been there, but the aura in the air and Jmes and Sirius and Peter stood together was unmistakable. Friendship and trust and appeals to a shared past seemed to float on the October mist.

…_We few, we happy few, we band of brothers…_

Peter nodded, then summoned his voice. He was surprised at how steady it sounded. "What do I have to do?"

The Fidelius Charm itself was remarkably simple. Lily performed the trickiest wand work, but then Charms always had been her best class. All Peter had to do was speak an incantation at one precise moment, and he managed without even a waver in his voice. Lily drifted back inside once it was done, and the three Marauders stood outside in the chilly October night for a few moments, not speaking.

"It's done," James finally said, and Sirius nodded.

"It's done," he agreed.

Peter could think of nothing to say. He closed his eyes and focused his mind on the dull ache in his forearm, marveling at how, if he concentrated, he could feel the shape of every tiny silver circle burning into his flesh.

He opened his eyes again quickly when he heard James's voice, as if from a distance. "—you all right? Wormtail?"

Peter nodded quickly. "I'm fine," he said. "Just a bit dizzy. I think I ought to go home now."

James nodded solemnly, and then, suddenly and unexpectedly moved to Peter's side and embraced him tightly. "Thank you," he said, and Peter felt another unidentifiable stab in his stomach. He pulled away, then met James's eyes, leaned in, kissed him softly on the cheek, and disapparated.

Why was it, he wondered as he reappeared in the foyer of his flat, that the quotation now echoing in his head wasn't from Shakespeare at all, but rather from a story—one of Pontius's—that he thought he'd forgotten long ago.

_Judas, betrayest thou the Son of Man with a kiss?_

And then, brushing his hand along the burning scar, he apparated again.

* * *

October 31, 1981

_He said, "It is finished."_

Peter ran.

He was a rat now, running, scurrying away from the sight, from what he had wrought, from the bodies of Lily, red hair dull and lifeless in the dust and rubble, and of his star, its light now out forever, and two words were an agonized mantra in his head: _Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me._ But a rat, it seemed, knew more terror than even a guilty human, and Peter realized that first, first of all, he had to save himself, because this hadn't been what was meant to happen, not at all, and everything had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

What else could Peter do but save his own life?

And so he ran, ran from the rubble and the sight of the lighting bolt livid on Harry's forehead and the knowledge that the Dark Lord wasn't about to protect him now.

Ah, he could go to Dumbledore, he supposed, but Sirius would kill him first, and even Dumbledore would have no tolerance for a Judas, for a traitor.

Where could Peter go, now he had lost his star and had nothing to follow?

…_And they took the thirty pieces of silver, the price of Him that was valued… and gave them for the Potter's Field…_

The potter's field, the field of blood—the price of his thirty pieces of silver. That was where Peter must go. He didn't know where to look for it; he knew Sirius would be after him soon, and still he ran.

The potter's field. Wherever that might be, it held the price of his redemption.

And tonight was Samhain. The end of the summer and the day of the falling of the stars.


End file.
